


More Than a Makeover (More or Less)

by Palebluedot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Queer Eye - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Getting Together, Humor, I'm not taking this seriously and I recommend you don't either, Post-Canon, THE dumbest thing I have ever written, non-consensual reality show participation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 00:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20163010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: On this episode: the Fab 5 (or an approximation thereof) help a recently unemployed angel and demon find themselves outside of work, and get them spiffed up for a very special day.(Or: local Antichrist decides that Aziraphale and Crowley could use the Queer Eye treatment, and acts unilaterally.)





	More Than a Makeover (More or Less)

Harsh lights. Flipping pages. The rumble of dozens of pairs of shoes trotting about from place to place. The film crew had not been here for long — hadn't been _anywhere_ for long, when you got down to it — but now that they'd arrived, they fell into place with all the urgency of seagulls spotting spilled chips. Booms were adjusted, cameras rolled into position, and a group of people seated in canvas folding chairs whispered amongst themselves in a nervous huddle. Kids were always unpredictable, and now they had a whole gaggle of them on their hands. Well, only four of them, but with the unity of vision that made them just as bad as a proper gaggle.

The huddle eyed them with vague dismay. Hair and makeup was not going well. The girl kicked the shins of anyone who approached brandishing lipstick, no amount of rouge could liven the cheeks of the pale one, and the grimy one was, well, _grimy_. That smudge on his chin wouldn't budge for love or money or half the tin of foundation. The curly-haired one was all right, though. Perfect, really. Didn't need anything at all, which was a bit peculiar, but gift horses were to be accepted without further inspection in this business. Or so they'd been told.

As though hearing their thoughts, the curly-haired boy looked up. “I think you've done your jobs now,” he said. Obediently, the stylists packed their supplies and marched off the set.

The boy with the smudged chin tugged on his sleeve. “Adam, what happens after hair'n makeup?”

Adam shrugged. “We start filming, I guess.”

“It better be more fun than that patriarchal _nightmare_,” spat the girl over crossed arms.

“Sorry,” said Adam. “It's what they're supposed to do first. The good part's coming up, though.”

“We're about to start filming!” cried one of the huddle. Then, with equal confidence, “Or whatever it is you're supposed to say!”

“Actually,” piped up the pale-faced boy, “I think you're supposed to say, _lights, camera, action_.”

Adam nodded. That would do.

“Lights, camera, action!” amended another of the huddle, and the cameras switched on.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, remembering themselves, one of their number popped up and sat in a new chair just beyond the lights, a script balanced on their lap.

“So,” they said, cheerfully, from the shadows, “tell us a bit about how you know the nominees. Are they your fathers?”

The girl screwed up her face in disdain. “Don't be _stupid_. How could they _possibly_ be _all_ of our fathers? We're not even _related_.”

Adam looked similarly unimpressed. “Of course not. I don't need two more dads, I like the one I've got. They're more like...weird uncles.”

“_Really_ weird uncles,” agreed the smudged one.

“Actually, they're not actually our uncles. But yes, they are rather weird.”

“But we like them,” said Adam, to all-around agreement. “And we thought maybe you could help.”

Behind the cameras, behind the huddle, five shapes formed in the dark.

“Oh dear, it's gotten a bit dark. Could you...?” Aziraphale trails off hopefully from the chair beside Crowley.

Easy enough. Snap of the fingers, crackle of energy, and lo, miracle of miracles, the clouds part before the sun, and the bookshop spills over with light.

“Oh,” stammers Aziraphale, “how lovely!”

“No need for insulting language.”

“Well, I only meant to ask you to turn on the electric light. But this is much nicer.” Edged in gold, he beams. “Thank you.”

Oh. Crowley grumbles a bit and leaves it at that.

All in all, it's a routine sort of day. At least, as routine as a day can be in the bookshop. It's only a few-odd centuries old, after all. It’s still got that “Aziraphale's new bookshop thing” smell in Crowley's mind. Despite its short-lived existence, Crowley’s managed to get quite familiar with it. He has watched the whole sampler platter of weather patterns through its cluttered windows as the years ticked on — storms and blizzards and unending drizzles and gentle snowfalls and rolling fog and, when London forgot itself, pure sunlight. He has seen it at all times of day, in all kinds of light. He has seen it deserted because it was three o'clock on a Wednesday, and therefore closed, and because it was technically open but Aziraphale had glared extra smite-ily at all challengers, and because it was a stuffy old shop at the best of times and honestly, what else could you expect, and, on one unfortunately memorable occasion, he saw it deserted because it was on fire.

He has never seen it busy. 

That bit of constancy self-immolates with the tinkling of a bell. 

At the sound, Aziraphale tersely jams a bookmark into place. “If you’d kindly read the sign, you’d see we close in ten — _oh, good heavens_.” 

It’s chaos before the book hits the floor. The shop is _ packed _ , not with customers poking about futilely for price tags, but with something else. Something requiring an awful lot of — an awful _ lot _. There’s cameras and microphones and people bustling about clapping and yelling “Places, places!”, but all that mess soon parts like the Red Sea before that one guy that one time, forming a runway funneling five figures into the shop, arms outstretched and jaws dropped.

“We're he-ere!”

“Oh, she's _dusty!_”

“What is up with the _lighting_ in here?”

“How _old_ is this _ phone?_”

“The waistcoats! Oh my God, he really wasn't kidding about the waistcoats!”

“Oh, I can't wait to get my hands on this gorgeous hair!”

The source of that last outburst trots to the front of the pack, heels clacking, and, as promised, runs up to Aziraphale and buries both hands in his hair. Crowley moves to intervene, but as soon as he stands he's trapped by a net of welcoming embraces that smell of cologne and pomade.

“...I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale strangles out, going a bit cross-eyed to look at his assailant, “but who are you?”

“Oh, that was literally so rude of me, I didn't even introduce myself — I'm Jonathan!” the assailant replies brightly, and it is as though a bowling ball has landed on a piano just next to Crowley's ear.

Judging by the way Aziraphale jumps, he felt it too — that jarring stab of Wrong. Helplessly, they lock eyes.

It's not that a lie has been told, precisely. Crowley'd be a pretty crap demon if he couldn't pick out a lie when he heard one, and this just doesn't pass the sniff test. Clearly, this entity is trying very, very hard to be Jonathan, and believes themselves to have succeeded. Just as clearly, they are _not_ Jonathan, whoever Jonathan may be. Unaware of this, Not-Jonathan smiles and coos and fusses with Aziraphale's hair, unbothered by the fact that he's still frozen in his seat with abject alarm.

Around them, the chorus of singsong greetings morphs into a chorus of names, and four more proverbial bowling balls make their very real discordant landings. Craning his neck over the three-story hairdo of Not-Tan, Crowley gets a good look at the camera crew, and oh, something is _very_ off about them, too. _None_ of this feels earthly. It doesn't feel hellish or divine, either. It just feels _bizarre_, which leaves either the Almighty or —

“Adam.”

As soon as the name passes his lips, a great gasp rises from the gathered Nots. “Your nominator!” they gush in unison, clasping their hands.

“_Such_ a sweet kid.”

“You must be so proud!”

“He's going to _love_ what we do with you.”

“We've been...nominated?” Aziraphale asks, sitting stock still but for his eyes darting to and fro like a squirrel in the middle of the road. "By Adam? Whatever for?"

“Angel, quit _talking_ to them — ”

“You weren't just nominated, you _won_, honey!” says Not-Jonathan, vibrating with cheer. Then, with genuine concern, “Didn't they tell you?”

“Wait — they don't know who we are?” asks Not-Karamo, and _finally_, someone else looks lost.

Not-Bobby furrows his brow. “That's never happened before.”

“They're supposed to _know_ already, no one's ever confused when...”

The Wrongness builds. It builds like bees burrowing one by one into Crowley's ears, rapid-fire, crawling about inside his skull, tickling, itching, colliding, knocking about, crowding, crushing, and buzzing, buzzing, buzzing as his vision pixelates and gravity unravels and he's slipping, _falling_ —

Not-Antoni brightens, and reality snaps back into place. “Then they must have told you, and you forgot!”

“_Ohh!_” cry the others, before bursting into laughter.

“...Yes,” says Aziraphale dimly over the din, lowering his shaking hands from his ears and shooting a panicky glance at Crowley, “that sounds — reasonable.”

Not-Tan claps his hands together, business-like. “Well, now that you remember, we can get started!”

“Get started. Right-o,” nods Aziraphale with a sporting little pump of his arm. Behind his hand, he mouths urgently to Crowley: _ Do something! _

And oh, Crowley's already there. He's been honing every scrap of power he can muster since Not-Jonathan's not-name dragged its fingernails down his spine. He can feel it now, crackling and spitting away between and beyond his ribs, enough pure demonic potential to level a city — or, more productively, slide the _Bake Off_ a really cracking offer from Channel 4.

“Right,” he says, grinning a forked-tongue grin, “get started with _this." _With a snap of his fingers, that red, twisted ball of energy explodes from him, shaking the ground and sending every last invader, lens cap, and high-heeled shoe careening away from them at seven times the escape velocity of the galaxy.

It is very disheartening, therefore, when they do not move.

He shakes out his wrist. Snaps again.

As one, each of the Nots turns to face him.

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale faintly behind them.

“Crowley,” says Not-Karamo, and he doesn't sound angry, just...disappointed.

“You’d better _stay away from me,_” spits Crowley, scrambling backwards. But there's nowhere to run with the cameras crowding in.

“_Crowley_,” says Not-Karamo again, laying a swift hand on his shoulder. “We're not here to judge you. We're here to _ help _ you. But we can only help if you let us. That means you finally have to stop trying to push everybody away all the time, and let yourself be _ seen_.” His dark eyes are painfully earnest when he asks, “Are you ready to take that first step?”

As quickly as he can possibly manage, Crowley does the math. 

These...whatever-they-ares all but confirmed that Adam is behind the whole whatever-this-is. As of the last time they visited Tadfield to look in on him, Adam didn't want him and Aziraphale dead, so they probably have nothing to fear. Of course, twelve-year-old humans are hardly known for their stability of opinion, so he can't take anything for granted. That said, these whatever-they-ares are unspeakably powerful, vastly outnumber them, and have them surrounded, and also, a terribly worried-looking Aziraphale is nodding frantically at him over the Nots' shoulders, so his options are a bit limited. He swallows, hard.

“I...yeah, you know, on second thought, I am. Sure. Why not. Great. Fine!”

Not-Karamo's face crumples into a watery smile. “I'm proud of you,” he says. “I think we'll have a lot to learn from each other.”

With effort, Crowley nods. “Right. All about learning, me. Let's...get on with it, then. How do we start?”

Not-Bobby laughs. “There'll be plenty of time for that. We're here all week, after all!”

“..._All _ week?” asks Aziraphale.

“Of course!”

Crowley exhales. One week. One week of humoring the boy Antichrist, then it's back to normal. He can manage that. He was once a nanny for five years for the _alleged_ boy Antichrist. A week of whatever the _fuck_ this is has to be a cakewalk compared to five years in high heels.

“Just to be clear,” says Aziraphale, “after the week is over, you'll leave? All of you? For good?”

“Oh, honey,” Not-Jonathan says sympathetically, “I know it's not a lot of time, but I promise we'll have you both looking _gorgeous_ for your gorgeous wedding.”

Mushroom clouds. Mushroom clouds behind Crowley's eyes.

“Our _what?_”

“I _beg_ your pardon —”

“_Our what?”_

“I assure you we are _not_ — could _never —”_

Not-Antoni laughs. “Very funny — I know you didn't forget _that_ part too!” And space fizzles in a low, threatening hiss. Crowley keeps his mouth shut — couldn't say anything if he tried. Reality settles. His mind does _ not_.

“We'd better get a move on,” says Not-Tan. “It's gotten a bit late to really start working today, but we're so glad we could pop in and meet you both!”

“We'll be back bright and early!”

“Remember what we talked about, Crowley.”

Not-Jonathan folds his hands over his heart on his way out the door and calls back, “Oh, I miss you already!”

And that's that. The Nots leave, and the camera crew follows, dragging their equipment out the door in a long, sibilant rush.

“I think,” says Aziraphale at length, “we ought to pay a visit to Tadfield.”

“I'll get the car,” says Crowley. He doesn't move.

Utterly alone in the bookshop, faces burning, they stare at the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in a real, actual dream, and just wouldn't leave me alone. It's a far cry from my normal style, but I hope it comes together well. Updates will depend on my classes, but I've already got a lot more silliness in store!
> 
> Comments are love <3


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